


help me find the priceless things

by lameafpun



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27071806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lameafpun/pseuds/lameafpun
Summary: The first scrap of good luck since being run out of Blackwater comes in the form of a treasure map and so, being a hunter of such things, you follow the dotted lines. Mister Morgan is just there to make sure you don't walk off a cliff on the way.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Kudos: 15





	help me find the priceless things

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” You sweep into camp, waving a piece of paper above your head with a wild look in your eye and a cackle in your throat. “I’ve really got it this time!”

The camp continues milling about in a steady level of activity. Pearson was happily (bloodily) chopping away at a rabbit someone had brought in — either Arthur or Charles you’d guess — and Hosea and Lenny were at the designated dice table. The girls were off, probably in town, and Abigail and Jack were by their tent. The others were . . . somewhere.

Dutch was the only one who seemed to share your boundless enthusiasm as he put aside his book and stood, parting himself from the words of his precious Mister Miller. Not that you begrudged him his love for the author, you just agreed with Lenny. Pretty words Mister Miller may have written but they were empty as well — not meant for people such as yourselves.

Still, Dutch was supportive in his own way. After you had proved there was something to it by going to the first location marked on the map, yes, but supportive all the same.

It helped that he was in one of his good moods, buoyed by some success or another you hadn’t bothered to keep much track of. Doubtless something Arthur had done (you would have guessed John as well if he still wasn’t laid up with that new scar of his). Or Micah.

Eugh. Micah (you would say nothing against him, maybe you just didn’t understand him the way he needed people to, but honestly he’d been awful enough for the short time you’d been around him to totally sap that need to understand away from you).

“Well I declare this to be a great amount of good fortune that has come our way! Tell me, what kind of prize are we looking at?”

Chest heaving in excitement, you nearly shove the piece of paper in his face. You’re sure you’ll feel like an ass later but you’ll leave the heat of embarrassment as a problem for future you.

“A real, gen-u-ine treasure map from the Jack Hall gang!” You have to bite your lip to keep from squealing and your words come out in a shaky breath. “Rumored to have been one of the nastiest, wealthiest gangs in the area ’til the law ran ‘em out. And I’ve got the map to where they stashed their treasure before going out in a blaze of glory in a final, legendary shootout.”

There’s a tearing pain near your mouth and you realize you’ve bitten through some of the already peeling skin on your lips. An unfortunate, if natural, consequence to not stocking back up on vaseline. Still, the pain washes away as your eyes settle back on the map you have in your hands. Frayed at the edges and fragile besides, it is the first good lead you’ve had in a while — the first scrap of good luck that hasn’t turned to ash in your hands.

“You sound positively enchanted. Well then I expect we’ll be eating well for the foreseeable future. With your and Mister Morgan’s efforts I expect we’ll all grow more than our horses can ably carry.” He chuckles and you join him easily. “Ah, speak of the devil.”

Your laughter dies a quick death as you spot a very distinctive horse and a more distinctive rider out of the corner of your eye. Though you make to leave Dutch waves you down with one hand, waving to someone over your head with his other, and you stay even as it feels like you’re being held down, staring into some sort of spring loaded trap.

A rustling of belt buckles, spurs, and holsters jangle behind you, a melody that makes your hair stand on end, and you find the feeling justified as an air of quiet menace manifests behind you. Subconsciously, your spine straightens enough to give you at least an extra inch in height, though the willpower you try and retain in order to not jump to the side is very, very conscious.

 _The spurs_ , you think to yourself grimly, with just enough humor to necessitate hiding the fast forming grin on your face, _they jingle. Menacingly._

“Dutch.” Mister Morgan’s voice slammed into you like a physical thing. It pushed you to the side for all you resolved to not act differently, allowing him to stand front and center before Dutch. You don’t look up to see if he notices you. “Was just comin’ back from a huntin’ trip.”

With his focus on Dutch for the moment you feel safe enough to look up. He’s tall enough to block the rays of late afternoon sunlight and in his shadow you observe him with glances you hope he doesn’t think too rude or creepy. Yes, you can see he’d been hunting. There’s a big red stain on his shoulder that seeps into the cloth of his shirt in a way you know won’t be easy to get out, and it looks like he dipped his hands into red paint. It’s mostly washed away, yes, but glints of red remain beneath his nails and in the webs of his fingers.

“This young adventurer has come across something that could prove most interesting and, more importantly, profitable.” Dutch chuckles again and you’re torn between swelling with pride or wilting in hope of avoiding the creeping sensation of dread. “Given the nature of this endeavor — and the sensitivity of it — I’d hope you join, son. Not to mention I think a, ah, skilled horseman may be needed for whatever treacherous path you may find yourself on.”

Though Dutch had taken it upon himself to say that last part diplomatically you can’t help the burning that flushes your face.

Arthur’s eyes flickered to you. The brief moment of eye contact makes you want to die, and if you could have sunk lower into the ground you would have.

“‘O course.” He says with that strangely quiet confidence. “Couldn’t hurt. How long you reckon we’ll be riding round the Heartlands?”

It takes a second to register that he’s talking to you.

“Oh, uh,” Drops of sweat slide down your back and you clutch at the map, hoping your smile didn’t seem too strained. “Actually th - um, that is, it’s not exactly gonna be a quick trip. Or in places we’ll be overly familiar with?”

Your voice falters and dips into silence as you catch the scrunch in Dutch’s brow. He tilts his head and you clear your throat.

“Well, the map - maps - are based on landmarks. Can’t just give away the location to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who somehow comes across a lucky little piece of paper.” Dutch nods. “So it may take a week. A few weeks, maybe, at least for this particular map, talking to people and walking around and looking under every funny looking rock.” You smile weakly, directing most of it at Dutch and hoping he sees this a worthy bet.

Arthur doesn’t look too fond of that “search under every rock” idea but Dutch has started stroking his mustache in a way you think he practices in a mirror when the flaps of his tent are closed. It’s a considering kind of look that only lets a few moments of silence in, but you rush to fill it anyway.

“I mean we could - it doesn’t have to be a constant search? I wouldn’t wanna take up too much time.”

“Frankly we’re spread a little thin to risk much of the law’s attention and this sounds like safe money. Relatively.” He nods and you’re nodding along. “Well, Mister Morgan, are you ready for a treasure hunt?”

“Sure.” Mister Morgan drawls and his gaze shifts to you. Your own drops to the ground instantly and despite the heat beating down on you a cold sweat breaks out on the back of your neck. “Yer horse saddled up?”

oOoOoOo

“We - I won’t let you down Dutch!” The “young adventurer” almost bows. Arthur catches the little bend at her waist even as she manages to turn it into an exaggerated nod. She practically sprints to her mount, an ornery old horse about as sour as its name: Lemon.

He turns to Dutch, thumbs hooked on his belt. “You sure this won’t be just another wild goose chases?”

“Now, Arthur, don’t tell me you ain’t willing to support a member of our family in these trying times.”

Arthur snorts.

“Dutch, ain’t this putting an awful lotta trust in someone so . . . new?”

There’s a stern kind of look on Dutch’s face that Arthur recognizes. It’s the same look he had when he brought up his feelings on Micah, if a little less severe, and Arthur knows — has known — that Dutch is set in keeping them both. Part of his plan, he supposes.

“Which is why I’m sending you. Son, I’m trusting you to keep our family safe and if that also involves finding a bit of money then I’ll count that as a blessing — one that we sorely need.”

He can’t really argue with that. Dutch takes his silence as what it is, acquiescence, and nods at him before disappearing back into his tent, book in hand.

With a sigh, he strides over to the hitching posts.

“Now you be good now Lemon or I swear I’ll take ya to the glue factories myself and they’ll have to add ‘shortbread’ to the back of your name ‘cause that’s what you’re gonna look like.” Arthur tilts his head up just enough to peer under the rim of his hat — the adventurer is staring into the eyes of their horse as seriously as they can. The horse whinnies and looks generally nonplussed. In the face of this they falter and bring their arms up to hug Lemon’s neck. It starts to chew at their hair almost immediately. “Ok, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that but please just don’t throw me off ’n embarrass me again, ya grumpy shit.”

“You ready?” Before the first word is completely out of his mouth the adventurer jumps, knocking their head against their horse’s with a bony thump, and yelps.

They whirl around, neck creaking with the effort of peering up his horse’s flank to see him already in the saddle. It’s the second time they’ve looked him full in the face, accident or not, in the months they’ve run with the gang. Their eyes are big and oddly innocent looking, offset by the bags under their eyes so dark they look like twin bruises. Despite that their eyes sparkle vibrantly.

“Mister —“ Their adam’s apple bobs as they swallow. “Ah, yes, of - of course! Yes, I’m ready. Quite ready. Was I - I mean, I’m sorry, I suppose I _was_ taking a little too long.”

“Just get on yer horse.”

“Of c-course!” They scramble for the water bucket meant for the horses. Turned upside down, it is a perfect footstool to haul themselves up into the draft horse’s saddle.

Arthur makes a gruff, vaguely affirmative noise and nudges his horse out past the bounds of the camp.

oOoOoOo

Riding away from camp, map in hand, is a surreal experience. You keep expecting Micah to come springing out of the underbrush, gun in hand, ready to yank Lemon’s reins and drag you back into camp. Not that he would have the authority but he can be convincing when he wants to be, backed up by gunmetal and Dutch’s confidence as he is.

With every hoofbeat it starts to sink in that you’re actually free — free to do something really useful for once, something to show the Dutch and the rest that taking you in wasn’t a mistake. No, taking you in was opportunity knocking on their door!

Now you just had to prove it.

With shaky hands you try and smooth out the wrinkled map. Most of the details are already burned into your brain but, still, tracing each line sets off a rush of adrenaline that has you squirming in the saddle. In your somewhat short career as a treasure hunter never has there been something this straightforward. Your method of combing through local history books, looking for stories on the local legends and questionable locations of buried heirlooms and other types of treasure, had resulted in many a day running around the outskirts with a shovel (sneaked off one of the wagons — but soon, with a bar of gold you could buy a hundred shovels!) and the land left looking like an enterprising funeral home.

You’d filled the holes in after, of course. You weren’t a monster.

But now you have a lead! A real, tangible, honest to god lead! And you’d already found fifteen dollars among those rock formations!

“That’s kinda lousy for a treasure.”

You start and brush a fingertip over your lips as you realize you’d been talking that whole time. It hadn’t felt like it. Usually it starts off as more of a mumble and builds until it’s understandable, so you must have been talking for quite a while indeed.

The first words Mister Morgan had deigned to speak to you finally tie themselves together and the burn at your neck and ears is cooled somewhat by the offense you feel on behalf of your chosen career — offense that overrides good sense.

“A treasure that has returned on my original investment and then some!”

“How much’ve ’n investment?”

There’s a pause as you consider that and another pause as your gaze drops to the saddle horn.

“Ten dollars.”

A grunt from your riding partner pulls up a familiar, but dull, indignation.

“Hey, that’s five whole dollars the camp might not have had. I bet someone could get a fashionable hat, maybe a coat, or some very fine suspenders. The possibilities are endless — and anyway, there’s something even more valuable than that I’m going to be looking for on this hunt.”

He grumbles and seems to deliberate whether he really wants to continue the conversation. It’s not quite as good as the look Charles has — usually levied at Uncle — but he’s more practiced and Arthur’s better at threatening rather than taciturn in terms of looks. Well, _looks_. There is a difference, you think.

“What?”

“Mister Morgan, don’t you know that the real treasure is the friends we made along the way?”

There’s a look on his face, like he’s bit into a lemon, and your smile becomes a little unsure (you’ll make this work, you have to).

“You’ve . . . never heard that expression?”

“No.” There’s definitely something he leaves unsaid at the end of that. Maybe “that’s the most goddamn stupid thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of hearing.” Or “I have and I forgot — on purpose.” Whatever it was the weight of the low snap in his tone feels like an added weight in the air. It’s awkward and horrible and is probably a signal to leave well enough alone but the build up of excited word vomit is leaving cracks on the dam of self preservation. 

“So,” _the dam of self preservation has completely burst_ , “Mister Morgan, what do you know about the Jack Hill gang?”

“What?” He does that gruff thing with his voice, the thing that would probably hurt your throat if you tried it.

“Well,” You begin, gaining confidence with each word you get out, “the Jack Hill gang! The gang whose treasure we’re going after this very moment! A gang so cruel and mean they had lawmen in a hundred counties going after them with the wrath of god in ‘em. I have their cigarette card.” There’s an inordinate amount of pride in your voice as you add that last bit and it seems to pull his attention.

“Cigarette card?”

“Oh, yes! Wonderful little cards — collectibles? I’ve heard about avid smokers, or collectors I suppose, who get an extra pack just for the chance of a new card.”

He snorts. “People actually go for that crap?”

You nod enthusiastically. “I’ve heard cigarette sales have been skyrocketing! Ingenious on the part of the cigarette manufacturers, really. The rush of opening up a pack and seeing a new card to add to your collection is…” Finding a way to word a response without making you seem unhinged takes a few seconds before you finally settle on: “exciting.”

Silence reigns as Mister Morgan rolls that over in his head. You let it settle this time. It feels different, less alone than before, more considering on Mister Morgan’s part.

“You smoke a lot?”

You blink at the not-entirely-unrelated-question. Concern about a person’s health — that only came after friendship, right? “Sorry?”

He grunts again and motions at Lemon’s saddle bags. “For the cards. Can’t imagine you got that Jack Hill one on the first try.”

A noise of realization burbles up your throat. “I found the card in camp. Could never bring myself to pick up the things — horrible habit, really.”

“Ya —“ He cuts himself off with a forceful sigh.

“Don’t mistake me, Mister Morgan, I dislike the habit and that there are even fewer spaces to escape that disgusting smoke but the cards . . . well, the exchange is not worth it but they’re shiny. And the Jack Hill Gang card was _very_ shiny.”

Another gruff noise. The essence of eloquence itself (if Mister Morgan could read minds please you didn’t mean it).

Valentine had yet to rise on the horizon and so you settled yourself into this new atmosphere you had created. It was easier, looser, though that may have been the adrenaline. The realization that Mister Morgan was probably not going to kill you — or worse, expel you from the gang — felt like a shot of caffeine straight into your veins. This was your chance.

“The Jack Hill Gang!” You shout, the words coming together with the grace and gravity of mud, and Mister Morgan nearly falls off his saddle.

The ensuing word vomit lasts — at full torrent too (though that might not make a difference as you’re still not sure whether Mister Morgan had really been listening) — until the horses are plodding through the muddy road that runs through Valentine. Rays of afternoon sunlight that had warmed your backs had bled away already, leaving the last remnants of sunset your welcome as you come to a stop outside the town’s one and only general store.

Getting off the saddle is an entire ordeal. While Mister Morgan simply swings a leg over the side of the saddle and drops down, casual as can be, you swing your leg over and . . . stare. The distance between your feet and the ground stretches before your eyes. Without a step stool, your feet simply dangle.

You hate this part.

A deep breath steadies you, braces you, and you clench the saddle horn with one hand while throwing the other out in front of you. Just in case you fall, of course, but you dearly hope you don’t. Lemon’s fidgeting is not helping. Slowly, you loosen your hold on the horn and edge yourself off the saddle until only your lower back rests on it, and you’re falling.

You land with a squish-splash that nearly takes your legs out from under you if not for the grip you had on the stirrup.

“Oh thank christ.”

And like that, you’re officially in Valentine. It looks different from the ground. Definitely a humble town. Cozy, you would say, but ultimately nice. Yes, you think to yourself, settling your knapsack onto your back, you can definitely get used to this place.

Then the smells and sounds come back to you; the squelching of Lemon’s hooves against the road that’s more shit than dirt makes your hair stand on end, the smell only more so, and your face twists.

“City folk.”

It’s spat like an insult and you take it as one, whipping your head to the side to try and catch a glimpse of a sneering face, but for a small town there’s quite a crowd moving between the shops. Whoever it was gets swept away, leaving you standing by your horse holding the lead in your hands limply.

“Well. That was rather,” you turn to Mister Morgan, to maybe dramatically lament the state of civility, but find only his person-less horse (who seems to be giving you the same sort of look that Mister Morgan was so practiced with, a deadpan stare that leaves you feeling the slightest bit silly) and the swinging front door of the general store, ” . . . rude.”

Lemon whinnies unhappily as you hitch him to the post. His grumpiness was familiar at least. You pat his neck in a way you think is comforting but still leap up the stairs to follow Mister Morgan into the shop, waving genially to the woman sitting on the bench in the front. And then, again, at the man who is grumpily browsing through the cans of corn before finally catching sight of Mister Morgan.

He was already flipping through the catalogue.

“What are you getting Mister Morgan?” He starts, hand jerking down to his gun belt for a brief second before forcefully unravelling the tension in his body. The man behind the counter looks marginally less nervous at that, but his knuckles are still whitened where he’s gripping the edge of the counter. “Provisions? A shovel, maybe? One of those would be very useful. Oo, a book would be lovely.”

“How long you expectin us to be lookin under every funny lookin rock anyway? Specifically?”

A fair question, you think. Very fair.

The urge to mumble or even mouth an expletive is improper in public, so you don’t give in no matter how cathartic it may be. You do, however, allow the satisfaction of letting it echo around in your head.

Fuck.

And then again, with feeling, just for the symmetry of it all.

 _Fuck_.

“I don’t know.” The amount of effort you put into keeping yourself from deflating is substantial. “I’ve never gotten this far in this sort of . . . well, this.”  
He looks up from the catalogue, squinting in a vaguely accusatory way. “What kinda treasure hunter are you?”

“I - I have a time frame.” He stares at you from beneath the brim of his hat. You have a feeling that this isn’t going well. “A general time frame?”

He doesn’t sigh or grunt in the way you feel at least passingly familiar with now, but as he goes back to flipping through the catalogue his lips move — though whether he’s mouthing a curse or a prayer is beyond your lip reading ability.

“Will we be moving out tonight?”

He chuffs. It could be a scoff but you’re standing only about several paces from him and his mouth does not open in that characteristic scoff-lip-movement people usually do, so it’s probably a chuff.

“Too dark — for us ’n the horses. ‘Specially if we’re gonna be looking for something so delicate.”

“Oh.” You chew your lip. “Th —“

“Thank you, mister.” Mister Morgan nods at the man behind the counter and closes the catalogue with a gentle thump, soundly interrupting whatever you had wanted to say. The storekeeper’s answering smile is strained.

With that, Mister Morgan ambles away from the counter and you scramble to follow.

“I have a few dollars on me — I assure you I can accrue more on our journey. Madam N —“

“Don’t you have some questions to ask?”

“I - I’m sorry?”

He makes a sound low in his throat. “Questions. For the map.”

Each word is forced out from between clenched teeth. His hands aren’t clenched into fists, but they are strangely stiff at his side.

“Of c—“

“Get!”

The ground nearly gives under you in your haste to follow his orders. Slipping with every step, you skid across the mud, clutching the straps of your knapsack in an effort to steady yourself. Soon enough your shoes hit the wood landing and you skip up the steps.

The saloon doors swing in front of you. The top of your head just barely brushes the top of it, soundly covering your face, and you enter with a smile. It hurts keeping it in place, but ever since you’ve thrown your lot in with Dutch and his gang there was a saying told to you years ago that had come quite fixed in your mind — fake it til you make it — and while the corners of your mouth may have been getting a little strained you were sure you were already halfway to making it.

The doors hit your back, the swing a little more intense than you’d anticipated. You make eye contact with a grizzled old man with a raccoon hat (was it staring at you? oh god it was staring at you) enjoying a roll of buttered bread.

“Good afternoon!”

He scowls, lip curling to reveal brown, broken teeth. “Blab to someone who cares, shit for brains.”

Your smile does not dim as you make your way to the bar even as you stumble over someone’s foot. Yes, at least halfway to making it.

oOoOoOo

Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. Stubble tickles his palm and he grunts; he’d forgotten to shave that morning and new growth was already plaguing him. A glance in the mirror doesn’t make him feel any better about it. He looks the same as he always does — maybe a mite worse, disheveled as the uneven hair makes him seem. Disheveled and old and worn. He snorts. So the same he’s always looked — worse or not, it wasn’t ever going to look good.

With a sigh he collapses onto the mattress. It creaks and squeaks beneath him, voicing its displeasure clearly and with gusto. His back echoes the springs with a symphony of crackles and pops. Arthur curses at a particularly enthusiastic one, and then again at the twinge that radiates out from his neck — something did not slide back into place properly.

The tension, however, bleeds out of him as he flips through the pages of his journal. Half finished drawings of animals and herbs he’d sketched from memory, pulled from the sights on first the wagon trip to Horseshoe Overlook and then from subsequent hunting trips, fill the margins. It’s relaxing, in a way, to see the passage of time so starkly.

He stops turning the pages. He’d forgotten what he’d drawn on that first cold night in Colter. Well, he’d drawn and written down many things but among the notes on how damn cold it was and the quick word on wolf boy’s scar he’d drawn the treasure hunter. His hands tighten on the book binding. An errant sketch in the bottom corner of something completely unrelated but there they were, bundled in furs and Davey’s old coat. Their face was barely visible — a mouth and a nose and the barest hint of eyes — but as Arthur skimmed the hunched over frame that was small enough already a spark flared to life behind his eyes. Soft whispers of paper turning roared in his ears and the stump of charcoal danced between his fingers as time slipped away.

When you approach the hotel’s counter it is well and truly dark out. Your smile hurts. It slips on the way to Mister Morgan’s room and you have to cobble it back together when you come to stand in front of his door.

“Hello. Hello?” One corner of your mouth quirks. Mix and match, which is the right one for an informal greeting? “He - “ Your voice cracks. Your lips are curved the wrong way. Taking a deep breath steadies you, but you’re still left trying to remember the way a smile should feel and pasting it onto your face with increasing desperation.

Finally, when you have it fixed in place and you’re able to scrunch your eyes in a way that you know conveys happiness, you open the door.

“I think I’ve g - “ You swallow down the rest of your words. Not an uncommon reaction around Mister Morgan, one you’re sure he would prefer you to have much more often, but this time it is because he’s not conscious to hear you. Laid against the headboard with his legs hanging off the bed, a position that doesn’t look entirely comfortable, is nonetheless the one he’d settled in before fatigue had pulled him under. Unwillingly, it looks like. His journal, the one he never brings out unless he’s alone, is splayed across his lap and in his hand is a lump of charcoal. Whatever he’d been drawing — you can’t exactly see from across the room — is probably left half finished. That strikes you as a shame. “This is your room, I’m sorry.”

He isn’t awake for your apology and doesn’t awaken at it, but does shift and the breath you’d held in at the realization you’d spoken outside of your head comes rushing out. The journal follows. It slips through his loose, charcoal stained, grip and you’re lunging for it before you can ask yourself why. When you’re halfway across the room nothing short of superhuman abilities could have gotten you to his journal in time to stop its sudden descent and so it crashes against the floor boards with a muted thump. It is quickly overtaken by the louder thump of you skidding to your knees beside it.

You stay there for a moment, hunched over inches from his legs and trying to pick out the hopefully still heavy breathing of Mister Morgan beneath the pounding in your ears. With shaking hands, you reach for the journal. It’s face down on the floor and one of the pages is bent — you avert your eyes as you bend it back into place but the words “an uneven fit” jump out at you — but placing it on the side table doesn’t awaken Mister Morgan who, you’re almost overwhelmingly relieved to see, is still asleep.

Escaping is the first, second, last, and only thing on your mind. Without another sound you slip out of the room, the smile finally falling from your face as you shut your own door behind you. It’s time to take a page from Mister Morgan’s book; you collapse into bed and hope for the potential of tomorrow.

Arthur wakes slowly, the discomfort of his sleeping position having leaked into his dreams. He yawns and stretches and, having seen that the sun has yet to creep up over the horizon, reaches for his journal. It isn’t on his lap, but on the side table — a discontinuity he shrugs off as something he did in the last moments of wakefulness — and his charcoal is on the floor. He opens the journal, flips through the pages, and stops at the latest one; the one labeled “an uneven fit?” Only one portion of it has taken form and yet as he tries to put charcoal to paper nothing beyond what he’d finished earlier sees fit to appear. It stares back up at him; fatigue-bruised eyes filled with wonder.


End file.
